


Slap

by Benny_IsA_Dog



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Hospitals, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27705173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Benny_IsA_Dog/pseuds/Benny_IsA_Dog
Summary: Molly knew exactly what it would be like to have to cut away his sternum and open his chest cavity. She’d remove his heart to see the full extent of the bullet's path, and she'd see the surgeon's repairs, the feeble week-old healing, and the torn sutures and clotted blood that would have led to his death. She’d hold his heart in her hands, place it in the hanging scale by her table, then set it aside.Damn the inconsiderate, selfish bastard.------Set during His Last Vow.  Molly Hooper confronts Sherlock after he leaves hospital and nearly dies (again).
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Slap

**Author's Note:**

> I stan Molly Hooper and all her flaws. 
> 
> I'm not British, so please forgive any terminology flubs.

Sherlock was sleeping when Molly entered his room. She stood by the bed, looking down at him. The endotracheal tube had been removed a few days ago, but oxygen was still being delivered through a nasal cannula. Her eyes scanned over the monitors displaying his various vitals, an old habit leftover from her days in school. 

John had told her the second round of surgery had been nearly as touch-and-go as the first. The bullet had ripped through Sherlock's liver and the middle lobe of his lung, just to the right of his heart, and penetrated the vena cava, the vein that carried most of the blood back to his heart. Some of the sutures in the vena cava had torn open as Sherlock had run around London, and a pocket of blood had pooled on top of his diaphragm by the time he’d arrived back in the trauma suite, constricting his lungs, then his heart. Molly knew exactly what it would be like to have to cut away his sternum and open his chest cavity. She’d remove his heart to see the full extent of the bullet's path, and she'd see the surgeon's repairs, the feeble week-old healing, and the torn sutures and clotted blood that would have led to his death. She’d hold his heart in her hands, place it in the hanging scale by her table, then set it aside. She'd wash away the blood, then cut away his lungs, and take pictures and write notes explaining the exact path of the bullet. Then she'd set his lungs beside his heart.

Damn the inconsiderate, selfish bastard. 

Molly dropped stiffly in the visitor’s chair by the bedside, clutching her work bag to her chest. She hadn’t been to visit since his readmission. The room was haphazardly decorated with bouquets sent from fans last week now beginning to wilt, and a stack of get-well-soon cards sat on the bedside table. The balloons in the corner were new, though. They looked nice, taking away some of the sterility of the hospital room. Sherlock wouldn’t like them. He would call them frivolous and idiotically whimsical as he sneered at them with distaste. 

He was loaded with antibiotics and painkillers and would still be sleeping for twenty or more hours a day. It was strange to see him asleep, without the rabid concentration that burned from him every second. He looked relaxed, almost ordinary. 

Molly looked quickly down at her hands. It was awkward of her, sitting with him asleep like this. He could be out for ages, through visiting hours and beyond. Mechanically, she took out her phone and flipped through social media. Maybe it was better like this. If Sherlock were awake, he’d say something scathing. He’d say she was unconsciously rubbing where her engagement ring had been, or that the way she was holding herself meant she wasn’t comfortable in this establishment of the living. Or that the flyaways in her hair meant she’d gotten to work early so she could make time to come to visiting hours just to sit with someone who was ninety percent likely to be asleep the entire time. Maybe she could leave now, and he’d never know she’d been there. But of course he’d know, from the angle of the chair or the position of the doorknob…or something.

Sherlock’s breathing changed, a long exhale.

Molly looked up. His eyes were open, and he was blinking against the light. He frowned, eyes unfocused, looking at nothing in particular. He looked just as dulled and disoriented as any other patient that had come through intensive care in her school days. She’d imagined he would somehow still be just as sharp, rushed, and cutting as he always was, even through the buckets of fentanyl and oxycodone being pumped through his veins. 

"Um, hi. You're awake?"

He turned his head toward the sound of her voice, squinting. He licked his lips like he was ridding the sleep from his mouth. 

"Very observant," he said sarcastically, voice gravely. His eyes grazed over her sluggishly, and she shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Lucidity gradually returned to his eyes, the illusion of ordinariness dissipating.

“Um, how are you feeling?” she asked.

“I’ve recently had several rounds of invasive emergency trauma surgery,” he said, in a rush of breath. 

"Right, yeah," she said. She fiddled with the handle of her bag. "I was…um… hoping you'd been improving."

He shut his eyes and leaned his head back. Was he ignoring her, or just tired? Or, well, maybe he'd already fallen asleep. He looked skinnier than Molly had ever seen him. She glanced around--how long was left in visiting hours? 

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

Molly startled and let out a squeak before she could stop herself. 

He didn't even open his eyes, but raised his eyebrows in a silent prompt. 

"I'm visiting you," she said, lamely.

"No." 

"Um--what?"

"No. That's not all."

"I don't know what you mean.” 

He opened his eyes to stare at her just as he took a deep, labored breath. His face was still, willing her to telepathize what he thought she should've realized by now. _Are you going to make me walk you through this?_ Another ragged breath.

Molly wouldn't let him explain it to her--he would enjoy it too much. And it probably hurt for him to talk.

Molly sat a little straighter and set her bag on the floor. "Fine. I have something to say to you.” 

He did a quick eyeroll to show that that was obvious.

She set her jaw. “Why did you leave the hospital?”

Sherlock leaned his head back and gazed up at the ceiling. "There was an urgent matter I had to deal with." 

“That's not good enough.”

“I assure you it was very important.”

“You always say it's important.” 

"It always is."

“Sherlock, you need to take care of yourself!” 

“You’ve made your opinion on that matter quite clear.” He looked at her hand pointedly. Molly could feel the memory of the sting on her palms from when she'd slapped him, that day in the lab, and she wanted to hit him again.

“I don’t think I did, because since then you've gone and nearly died” 

He rolled his eyes again. “You can hardly blame me for the actions of someone else’s trigger finger."

“That's not what I meant-- I mean after that."

“I had it under control.” 

“No, you didn't! You barely made it through the second surgery!”

“Well, as I'm still alive, I'd say everything went as intended."

“Stop it!" Molly shouted.

Her voice rang around the little room, and his eyes snapped to her. She half wished she'd kept her bag on her lap to hide behind.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she continued, more quietly. “There are people--your _friends_ \--that care about you. They would do anything for you, and they _have_ done so much for you…" She balled her hands into fists and made herself hold his gaze. “And if _you_ cared about _us_ , you'd put in half the effort we have to keep you alive.”

He was quiet. His chest went up and down, stuttering and hitching jaggedly with every breath. 

“Why'd you leave the hospital, Sherlock? What happened?”

“That's not my secret to tell.”

Molly shook her head. "Fine-- _fine_ . Then just please-- _please_ \--promise me you won't do something like this again.”

He studied her. "I can’t make that promise.”

She sighed, shoulders dropping, and looked away. “No, of course you can’t.” He wasn't going to listen. She should’ve known she couldn’t make him listen to her. She picked up her bag and swung it over her shoulder. “Why did I think you would?” 

She stood and turned to the door. 

"Molly, I need to thank you."

She stopped, sighed, and looked back. "What?”

His face was impassive. "For hitting me. It...was helpful." 

Molly dropped her face into her hands. She didn't understand--she never understood him. He could be mocking her, or testing her, or maybe he was deluded enough to actually think she could influence what he decided to do or not.

“Thank you,” he said. 

She shook her head, dragging her palms across her eyes. He wasn’t listening to her, and he was too short-sighted to see how much he'd missed her point. She felt like she might cry, but that would be showing weakness, and it was a mistake to show him weakness. He could use it to hurt her or manipulate her, whether he meant to do it or not. She would not cry, not in front of him.

“That’s not good enough, Sherlock.”

When she dropped her hands, his eyes were narrowed on her.

"I can't do this,” she said, “I can't deal with you right now."

He frowned, eyebrows knitting together. She was confusing him. It was funny that he could be just as confused as the rest of them--all of the normal, little people he surrounded himself with. 

“I’ll see you, I guess,” she said, “...sometime.” 

Molly turned away quickly and pushed out the door. She made sure it closed behind her, and she walked halfway down the hall before she allowed herself to break down. Because she would not cry in front of Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> I desperately love comments and kudos. They're how I know you all are out there.
> 
> Gentle feedback welcome.


End file.
